


Gunner's Pox

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Patrician & Clerk [17]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidentally High, Ankh-Morpork, Complicated Relationships, Cute, Fluff, Humor, Illnesses, M/M, Politics, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 09:39:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17805608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Vetinari is ill. He feels very well indeed, however, and swiftly tires of his sickroom.





	Gunner's Pox

**Author's Note:**

> This is so self-indulgent and I will NOT apologize.

The Patrician sat back in his chair, and Vimes met his gaze levelly as he entered the room, coming to a stop just before his desk, and then he drew his hand up in a neat salute. Vetinari lookated at him impassively, and Vimes saw his gaze flit behind him, to watch Drumknott as he pushed the door neatly closed.

There were two others in the room: sitting at the small desk that Vimes ordinarily thought of as Drumknott’s, although he knew the clerk had his own office just next door, was an extremely severe-looking young woman with cascades of dark hair. It rather reminded him of Sybil’s favourite wig, but real, and less… _singed_. The other figure, standing with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his ever-present bag of equipment at his side, was Doctor Mossy Lawn, the best doctor in the city.

“You can _stop_ , Vimes,” Vetinari said eventually, with the faintest hint of amused impatience, and Vimes lowered his arm.

“Sir,” he said. He didn’t much like it when he was summoned to Vetinari’s office without knowing why – it often meant he was about to be asked[1] to do something ridiculous, or that something incredibly dangerous was going to happen in the city that he hadn’t yet heard about.

“You can stop,” Drumknott said from just beside Vimes’ shoulder, and Vimes frowned, turning his head to respond, but the Patrician underwent a sort of… _Change_. As Vimes stared at him, his body relaxed, and he sprawled back in his chair, a friendly smile splitting his face. Vetinari’s friendly smiles always contained an edge of steel[2], but this one contained no edges at all: it was warm and jolly, and the face it belonged to was sweet. Yes, it had a sharp chin, severe edges in the cheeks, a neatly-trimmed goatee, and icy blue eyes, but its wearer didn’t seem to have been told about how intimidating the face should be, and out of his face shone sunshine.

“ _Charlie_ ,” Vimes said, and immediately, he felt a sickly-cold rush in his veins as he looked to Lawn, and then to Drumknott. Drumknott was not one that one tended to look at, even when he was in the room with you: he had carefully cultivated a way of standing and holding himself that made one’s gaze just slide off him, like water slides off a duck’s oiled feathers. In this moment, however, it was plain to Vimes that Drumknott was _in charge_ , and it was an odd thought.

Certainly, he knew, Drumknott knew Vetinari better than anyone else in the city; he knew, theoretically, that Drumknott could probably do most of what Vetinari did as a matter of habit, but still, you didn’t look at him and _think_ , “Oh, he looks like he could wind the city around his fingers and play it like a violin.” You looked at him and thought, “Gods, what a boring man,” and that was before he even talked.

With that said, now, he looked… Subtly different, Vimes mused. Much like Charlie wore the Patrician’s face very differently, Drumknott held himself differently in this moment. He wouldn’t have been able to put his finger on exactly what the difference was, he doesn’t think, but the difference between the usual Drumknott, neatly working in the background like a shadow, and _this_ Drumknott, the commander, was palpable.

“He’s not dead, is he?” Vimes asked, surprised to find the words coming out a little hoarse.

“No,” Drumknott said. “No, Lord Vetinari has contracted a strain of Gunner’s Pox, that’s all.”

“Gunner’s Pox,” Vimes repeated. It wasn’t the most serious of illnesses – you were usually laid up for a week or two, with a nasty cold and if you were unlucky, some problems keeping food down, but that was all. Except… _Gunner’s Pox_ , he was aware, was so-called because it came with a rather vibrant rash: spots, a blue-black colour like the powder used in cannons, would form all along the skin. “Well… He’s alright?”

Drumknott’s expressionless face shifted just slightly. The brow furrowed, the lip twisted.

“He’s… _fine_ ,” he said finally. “Doctor Lawn?”

“He’ll be alright,” Mossy said, although he was shaking his head. “Of course, he says he can’t be seen in public, with the rash. It’ll make people nervous.”

“Thus the assistance of our friend, Charlie,” Drumknott said. The idea of Drumknott having friends, let alone sharing them with Vimes, was an abstract and distant one, and Vimes tried to put it out of his mind.

“And besides, he needs bedrest anyway, to get over it,” Mossy continued.

“So?”

“So nothing. He’s confined to his sickroom. But Mr Drumknott here is going to have to take care of him, and _I’ll_ tell people that it’s Mr Drumknott who’s ill. Thus why Eurydice here is going to take over as _Charlie’s_ personal clerk for the week.”

“Why do you have to take care of him?” Vimes asked.

Drumknott’s expression was frozen for just a moment too long, and then he exhaled, leaning back on one of his heels. Were he the sort of man to actually display feelings or human emotions, perhaps he would have crossed his arms over his chest, or run his hand through his hair, which was slicked neatly back, as ever, with brilliantine.

“His lordship is, _ahem_ , being somewhat unruly.” Drumknott coughed again. “That is to say… Without meaning to impugn the ability of our Dark Clerks, around four are required to keep him in his place at any one time, and we should rather not spread the illness around too much. I had Gunner’s Pox when I was fifteen, so I’m quite immune.” Vimes took in, for a long second, Drumknott’s expression, which revealed nothing except a very distant, if you squinted, flicker of embarrassment.

“ _Unruly_?” he repeated, unable to keep the glee out of his voice as Drumknott frowned at him. “Why _unruly_?”

“Last time Lord Vetinari was ill,” Mossy reminded him, making a vague gesture of his hand, “was, er, ten years back?”

“Eleven years ago,” Drumknott supplied. “From the twenty-ninth of April through to the sixth of March. I’d been in his lordship’s service for almost three years.” Of course he remembers, Vimes thought to himself. He’s probably got a file on it.

“He and Drumknott both had Dragon Flu, and they managed it mostly by just not having any meetings, with the both of them sharing a sickroom and communicating most everything to the Dark Clerks. _Then_ , I chose to give his lordship quite a powerful palliative in an attempt to keep him… You know, to get him to lie down, and stop working.”

“It didn’t work?”

“His lordship has built up an immunity to various sedatives,” Drumknott murmured. “And he fought the effects of the analgesic quite heavily, and ended up making himself quite ill. He doesn’t take well to being sedated, and what you must understand, Commander Vimes, that when disoriented and aware of his vulnerability, his lordship can be quite dangerous to those attempting to care for him.”

Vimes’ eyebrows were raised so high he could feel the slight shift of muscle in his face, _straining_ to raise them higher, and he was concentrating on not laughing. Of course, that made complete sense: a drugged Vetinari, so used to his own self-defence, and drugged off his face, would _of course_ be dangerous.

_Incredible!_

“So I’ve given him something to ease his pain, as well as to dull the itch of the rash,” Mossy said. “It’s put him in high spirits.”

“High spirits,” Vimes repeated. “Right.”

“So, when Charlie addresses the Genuan party at the ball on Thursday evening,” Drumknott says, “we should like to be able to rely on you. Our people are aware of what’s happening, of course, but Charlie does need support, and we thought that you…”

“Of course,” Vimes said. “On one condition.”

Drumknott’s face became so abruptly cold that Vimes had to focus to keep from taking a step away from him. He was aware, after that business last year, with the escape rooms, that Vetinari and Drumknott were… _intimate_. He knew that, behind closed doors, they had something else going on, and perhaps that’s why Drumknott was so keen to look after Lord Vetinari himself, as well as the more practical concerns of keeping him from knocking out his own staff, but… Drumknott had gained, in his service of Lord Vetinari, a curious ability to take on some the Patrician’s expressions, and this was one of them: stony, sharp, and _dangerous_. Drumknott had probably killed people – killed dozens, maybe. You could see that in his current expression.

“ _Oh_?” he asked softly.

“I want to see him,” Vimes said.

Drumknott’s cold gaze softened, but he frowned slightly. “Commander…”

“I had Gunner’s Pox when I was a lad,” Vimes said. “I won’t catch it.”

“Very well,” Drumknott allowed, after a moment’s thought, and he gave a nod to Mossy. “Thank you, Doctor Lawn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Call me if you need me.”

“Charlie, Miss Deer. I’ll send Vimes back down in a little while.” And with that, he led Vimes out of the Oblong Office, up the stairs. He didn’t show any of his worry, Vimes noted. Why would he? Drumknott wasn’t one for showing his feelings, but even still…

What must it be like, he wondered? To have to keep it completely secret, who you were with? He’s seen them around the city, at one time or another, as Vincent Wilkinson and Howard Faigle; he thinks he’s spied other people, too, with similar frames, but… That’s not the same, is it? That’s not enough. How could it be?

Drumknott grasped hold of a door, unlocking it, and he stepped in. Vimes watched, wide-eyed, as he tilted his neck slightly to the side, owing to the dagger pressed tight against his neck.

“Oh,” Vetinari said against Drumknott’s hair, his hold on the dagger loosening. He sounded disappointed. The Gunner’s Pox was… _very_ visible. Vetinari’s usually pale skin was flushed pink, and black spots were pepped over his cheeks, his forehead, his nose: even more of them were visible on his neck. He was wearing a pair of black silk pyjamas, over which he had a thick, dark-grey dressing gown, and he had nothing on his feet. Vimes had never seen Vetinari’s bare feet before: they were pale, and they were as visibly veiny as his hands, the nails similarly well taken care of, and the skin was littered with scars, especially around his ankles.

“Quite,” Drumknott replied, and he gently took the dagger away from the Patrician’s hand, sliding it into his own pocket. “Where was that one?”

“If you don’t know by now, you’re beyond telling,” Vetinari said, with a theatrical gesture of one hand, and he walked away from the door as Drumknott set his jaw. _Now_ , his irritation showed in his face, and Vimes watched, fascinated, as he rolled his eyes before gesturing for Vimes to follow him into the room.

It was not, he was quite certain, Vetinari’s bedroom, which was a cell-like room with little furniture and a lot of books; it certainly wasn’t Vetinari’s _actual_ bedroom, which was probably secreted in a secret passageway in Vetinari’s dummy bedroom[3]. This was one of the charming, made-up bedrooms very sparingly used by visiting ambassadors and the like: the bed was a large, four-poster affair with luxuriantly purple sheets, and there was a table stacked with reading material, books of puzzles, and a few board games, each in progress. On the floor beneath the table, as yet unopened, were some wooden jigsaws that looked like they’d take months to complete – the sort of insane jigsaws that declared they had several thousand pieces, all of which looked the same, and had to be assembled in a certain order to be assembled at all. Mr Fusspot, Vetinari’s dog, was asleep in the middle of some blankets on the bed, and snoring softly.

Vetinari himself was currently sitting at a standing piano against the side of the room, upon which was also balanced a violin case, and a few smaller, complicated-looking instruments Vimes didn’t know the name of. Vetinari was playing almost idly, his fingers working complicated acrobatics along the keys and producing a jaunty, syncopated tune from one of the more modern operas.

“Commander Vimes to see you, my lord,” Drumknott said quietly.

“Hm? Oh, send him in, Drumknott.”

“Behind you, my lord,” Drumknott said patiently, and Vetinari turned his head to look back at Vimes: his fingers continued to move on the keys, still playing, and then he stopped. He looked at Vimes, turning around on the piano stool[4], and he _smiled_. It was one of Vetinari’s smiles, to be sure: it had the expected edge, and the glint in his eyes was more than a little frightening, but it was warmer, more open, than any smile Vimes had seen on his face before.

“I heard Mossy drugged you up, sir,” Vimes said. “Didn’t want to pass up the chance to see it.”

“Ah, Vimes,” Vetinari said, fondly. “I’m quite well, I fear. Full to the brim with _energy_ , in fact. I sway only slightly when ascending the stair, and my mind is as keen and sharp as ever. Isn’t it terrible, Vimes, to sit with idle hands?”

“Yes,” Vimes said. “That why you have, uh, all that?” He gestured to the table of entertainments, which Vetinari looked at dolefully.

“Indeed,” he said, sounding displeased. “One prefers to be doing something more… _valuable_ , however. I have been trying to write some monographs, but alas, I keep losing my place on the page. My focus is not as it ought be.” He didn’t seem ill, that much was true, not in the way he was talking, but Vimes could see the slight shadows under his eyes.

He—

He didn’t _like_ Vetinari. That would be very wrong of him to say. No one really _liked_ Vetinari, except Sybil, Drumknott, and possibly his aunt, but he did feel a vague sense of sympathy. He certainly hated being ill himself, when _he_ was sick.

“I see,” Vimes said. “Well. Feel better.”

“Oh, doubtless, doubtless,” Vetinari said, turning back toward the piano and jumping into the middle of some sonata, as if he was picking up where he’d left off. “Do you know, Drumknott, that you’re the second love of my life?” He said it very casually, throwing the words over his shoulder as if they didn’t mean anything, as if he wasn’t thinking much about them, which wasn’t like Vetinari at all. _Ordinarily_ , when he spoke like that, it was theatre, but it didn’t feel like theatre now.

Vimes looked to Drumknott, who had begun neatly re-ordering some of the books on the table, and he took in the expression on his face. In coming into Vetinari’s sick room, Vimes supposed, some sort of threshold had been breached, because he _did_ show feeling now: his lips curved up at their edges, and he glanced down toward the floor. He’d never seen Drumknott smile like that before.

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott said softly, his tone full of warm indulgence.

“Jolly good.”

“Who’s the first?” Vimes asked, feeling his own mouth shift into a slight grin. _Vetinari_. Declaring his _love_ for someone. Incredible.

“Hm? Oh, we share her in common, Vimes,” Vetinari said casually.

Vimes felt his brow furrow. “ _Sybil_?” he asked, too baffled to be angry, and Drumknott delicately cleared his throat.

“I believe he means Ankh-Morpork, Commander,” Drumknott said, and Vimes glanced back to Vetinari’s, who was playing the piano without a care in the world. “Will that be all from Commander Vimes, my lord?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes, I think so. Did I threaten him?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott said.

“Oh, I ought have done. He enjoys that. That’s the only reason I bother.”

“Of course,” Drumknott said, slightly louder than before, and with an unmistakably embarrassed flush on his cheeks as he glanced at Vimes, who was trying not to laugh, “Vimes _is_ still here, my lord.”

“Is he? Good heavens.” He turned once more on the stool, moving with a surprising speed and grace for a man hopped up on cough medicine. “Hello, Vimes,” Vetinari said cheerfully.

“Hello, lord.”

“Goodbye, Vimes,” Vetinari said, turning back toward the keys.

“Goodbye, lord,” Vimes replied, still trying not to smile, and he left.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“Come here,” Vetinari said, and Drumknott did, sitting down on the piano stool beside the Patrician. Immediately, Vetinari wrapped an arm around his shoulders, drawing Drumknott to lean his head against his chest, and Drumknott smiled slightly. It was, at once, both _charming_ and _disarming_ to have Vetinari like this. His mind was, as he’d said, as yet keen, but his focus was lacking, and he would routinely become irritable and distracted before completing any one task.

He’d produced a few thousand words for various monographs, and Drumknott has been carefully keeping them organized by subject, so that when Vetinari demanded to work on one of them, he might swiftly produce the correct sheaf of paper. They had already completed one of the four jigsaws, and Vetinari kept losing his interest in Thud or Stealth Chess, as each required too singular a focus.

This was all without considering the fact that Vetinari kept producing blade after blade, although the Dark Clerks had removed all the concealed weapons _they’d_ known about before Vetinari was settled here, and Drumknott had done his own sweep as well.

And yet—

As much as it was exhausting, to keep up with his lordship, to do his best to keep him entertained and as content as he might be, barred in a bedroom with very little to entertain him, it was pleasant in its own right. Vetinari has been free with his affection, and has, in the two days he has been confined to his sickroom, called Drumknott the second love of his life (after Ankh-Morpork, of course), the light in his life, the best clerk on the disc, and, most touchingly (to Drumknott), someone who would make an afterlife worth wishing for.

He had scarcely any filter what _soever_ , and as dangerous it would be, outside of trusted company, in the meantime, Drumknott wanted only to bask in it. He could hear Vetinari’s heartbeat beneath his dressing gown and pyjamas, and he leaned into it, slinging his arm about the other man’s waist.

“I am going mad,” Vetinari muttered. “Utterly. I have never despised, loathed, abhorred, and hated four walls more.”

“Given how you just conducted yourself with Vimes, my lord, it is unfortunately pivotal that you—”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know, I must remain in seclusion,” Vetinari said, with uncharacteristic impatience. Drumknott had been worried, when the rash had begun – Vetinari _is_ some years past sixty, after all, much as he seems younger than his years, and another illness might have affected him very badly indeed. “I do wish you wouldn’t worry so loudly, Rufus.”

“I’m not worrying,” Drumknott murmured. “I was merely thinking that I _would_ have worried, were it not Gunner’s Pox.”

“Ah, but it _is_ Gunner’s Pox.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ah!”

“Havelock.”

“Yes,” Vetinari murmured, and he kissed the top of Drumknott’s head. “That damn dog is asleep.”

“He’s a very old dog,” Drumknott murmured, and he looked to the bank chairman, who was curled up on the bed, amidst a few blankets he had formed into a nest.

“Yes,” Vetinari said. “Yes, I expect he’ll die soon. Perhaps next year.” Drumknott leaned back, looking at Vetinari’s face, but Vetinari’s gaze was on Mr Fusspot. His expression was revealing, compared to his usual masks: his mouth was set in a loose line, slightly downturned. “He’s a very good dog. I’m sure I’ll be very sad. We won’t have another one.”

“No?” Drumknott asked.

“No. No, it would be unfair,” Vetinari said. “You’d have to look after him alone, at some point, or give him to Lipwig, if we both died at the same time.”

Drumknott’s blood felt very cold in his veins, but he didn’t say anything, and Vetinari wasn’t paying attention to him. He resented, on some level, the implication that Drumknott would go on to do something else, after Vetinari was gone, least of all to look after a dog, but he didn’t want to say that either, and so he sufficed by pressing his face back to Vetinari’s chest.

“Let me read to you,” Vetinari said. “You’re tired.”

“Alright,” Drumknott said. He didn’t bother to protest, because it was true.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

Drumknott awoke to Vetinari on top of him, his hands pinned either side of his head.

“Is that a dagger in your pocket?” Drumknott asked slowly.

“Yes,” Vetinari said.

“Where did you get it from?”

“I didn’t leave the room.”

“I _know_. Where did you—” Drumknott exhaled, and he closed his eyes. “Never mind. What do you want, my lord?”

“Does Mr Lipwig have an appointment with me, Drumknott?” he asked, and Drumknott stared up at him for a long moment.

“No, sir,” he said.

“Yes, he does,” Vetinari replied.

“ _No_ , sir,” Drumknott repeated, more emphatically.

“He does,” Vetinari said. “I have it written down, look.” He leaned back, and he handed Drumknott a piece of parchment, which Drumknott looked at critically.

_Rufus must do whatever I say._

_Lord H. Vetinari_

_Patrician of Ankh-Morpork_

_M.D., Mus.D., G.S.D, M.A., M.P.E., M.A.Sci., B.A. Inhum **[5]**._

“Is the list of the degrees you hold meant to add to your authority?” Drumknott asked mildly.

“I am a Bachelor in the Science of Inhumation, you may notice,” Vetinari replied, in a vaguely superior tone. Drumknott laughed, despite himself.

“My lord, this note just says I should do as you say.”

“ _Doesn’t_ it just?”

“My lord, _no_.”

“You don’t believe in the power of the written word?”

“My lord, there is no reason to summon Mr Lipwig.” They could trust him, Drumknott knew, and he was distantly aware that Lipwig was apprised of the _specific_ relationship between Drumknott and Vetinari, albeit not so much as Vimes: he recalls, vaguely, the night Lipwig had woken him on the sleeper train, and Stoker Blake had made him answer the door.

“There is. I am _dreadfully_ bored. Have him bring the undelivered things from the Dead Letter Office. Please?”

It was the _please_ that did it. Drumknott looked up at Vetinari’s expression, dotted over with black spots, and he wondered if he would ever begin to show his age. More of his black hair was giving way to silver in recent years, but the current patches of white only showed at his temples, and added an additional dignity to his bearing rather than taking away from it: Vetinari’s face had gained almost no lines at all, in the past fifteen years, but for a little more creasing in the lines at his eye. Even Margolotta had commented on it, when last they’d seen her.

He wished, in this moment, that he might say what another lover might. _I love you_. _I’m so happy to have you. I wish it could go on like this forever_.

Instead, he reached up, cupping Vetinari’s cheeks, feeling the rash beneath his thumbs. “Very well,” he said quietly. “I’ll have the Dark Clerks collect him. Get up, and take your medicine.” Vetinari kissed Drumknott on the chin, and Drumknott smiled.

“Whatever you desire, my _dearest_ man,” Vetinari said, and moved to stand. He slipped on the carpet, but he was upright again before Drumknott could catch him, his heart lurching in his chest, and smiled at him without a care in the world as he sipped at the tonic Doctor Lawn had left for him.

“And give me the dagger.”

“Oh, _Rufus_ —”

“ _Now_.”

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

Something was wrong.

Moist _knew_ something was wrong as he held the crate of dead letters in his arms, ascending the stairs with a black-suited guard either side of him. It must have been something, too – he knew, at times, that the lads would come into the Dead Letter Office and find that their undeliverable piles had been depleted slightly, but this was different. Vetinari had demanded _everything_ from the Dead Letter Office, and this crate is just the first of them – there was a good seven or eight _sacks_ of undelivered mail, thousands of letters with baffling envelopes.

There must have been some scheme afoot, he was sure, something… _Something_.

He was led into a bedroom, and he stopped, staring.

“Thank you, Mr Lipwig,” Drumknott said, taking the crate of letters and setting them aside, and Moist opened his mouth, but an arm was slung around his neck. “My lord—” Moist turned his head to the side, and he stared at the face of Vetinari, who was smiling pleasantly, his weight leaning against Moist’s side. His face was… spotty. His arm was surprisingly warm where it alighted on his shoulders, and he was aware of Drumknott slightly raising his hands, as if wanting to pull Vetinari off him[6], but not sure if he should.

“Gunner’s Pox?” he asked weakly.

“Have you had it before, Mr Lipwig?” Drumknott asked.

“Yes,” Moist said.

“Oh, good,” Drumknott said, but Moist couldn’t tear his gaze away from Vetinari’s icy blue eyes. Ordinarily focused to a sharp point, they were currently slightly defocused. “His lordship has just taken his medicine,” Drumknott said quietly. “He’s currently somewhat ill.”

“I see,” Moist said, concentrating on swallowing the urge to scream.

“Listen to me, Mr Lipwig, come, come, sit down, and listen to me,” Vetinari said, walking forward and drawing Moist with him, and Moist allowed the Patrician to push him slowly down to sit on the edge of the bed, while he straddled the stool for the piano in the corner, scooting it closer so that he could look at him carefully, squinting slightly. “Listen. Mr Lipwig. Listen. Are you listening?”

“Yes, my lord,” Moist said. For a long moment, with Vetinari staring directly into his eyes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, they sat like that. The seconds ticked by.  Moist had felt terror before: he felt it now. It was a distant, screaming terror, an animal instinct to flee as fast as he could, not because he knew that Vetinari was going to hurt him, but because, as unpredictable as Vetinari ordinarily was, he _really_ had no idea what he was thinking, or what he would do.

“ _Listen_ ,” Vetinari repeated, irritably, his brow furrowing. His face was so… _emotive_. When Moist stared at him blankly, he turned to Drumknott. Drumknott was showing the most emotion Moist had ever seen in him, his gaze upturned to the ceiling, his face a mask of cramped embarrassment. “Rufus, what do I mean?”

“I believe you mean _talk_ , my lord,” Drumknott said quietly, not looking at Moist or Vetinari.

“Aha,” Vetinari said, smacking his palms against his own knees, and turning back to Moist. “Drumknott informs me I meant _talk_. Talk to me, Mr Lipwig.”

“About what?” Moist asked.

“I don’t care,” Vetinari said. “What do you usually talk about?”

“With who?”

“Whom,” Drumknott said. He seemed to do it out of habit alone.

“With anyone!” Vetinari said, gesturing vaguely with his blue-veined, black-spotted hands. His expression abruptly changed, becoming wry, and Vetinari _smirked_. Moist leaned back and further away from him. “I’ll tell _you_ things, Mr Lipwig, if you tell _me_ things.” Moist felt the curiosity thrum in his veins, mixed with _excitement_ , and he leaned in.

“Will they be true?”

“Will the things _you_ tell me be true?”

“Maybe.”

“Then, _perhaps_. Mr Lipwig— May I call you Moist?” He had in his hand, somehow, from somewhere, a dagger, and when Drumknott saw it, he came over, snatching it from Vetinari’s hand and leaving him frowning as the blade was taken away.

“No!” Moist said. Vetinari blinked at him, apparently surprised by his emphatic refusal, and Moist coughed, glancing to Drumknott, who was _also_ looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “Er, that is to say, I mean… If you _want_ to?”

“Well, of course I don’t _want_ to,” Vetinari said haughtily. “It’s a dreadful name.”

“Worse than yours?” Moist retorted, without thinking.

“Obviously. _Havelock_. _Moist_. Both ridiculous, but one noticeably more dreadful than the other.” This was difficult to argue with. Facts usually were.

“Fine,” Moist said. “Havelock.”

“Moist,” Vetinari said. “Rufus?”

“Yes?”

“May I have some tea?”

“Of course,” Drumknott said.

“Moist?” Vetinari asked.

“Oh, er, yes,” Moist said. “Please, Rufus.” Drumknott turned such a dark stare on Moist that Moist felt like he might be turned to ice, or perhaps to dust, and he cleared his throat, hurriedly saying, “I mean, Mr Drumknott. Please. Thank you. Sorry.”

With one last glare in Moist’s direction, Drumknott slipped from the room.

Vetinari leaned in closer, and he said, “When I die—”

“You’re not dying!” Moist blurted out, surprised by the panic in his own voice. Vetinari blinked owlishly at him.

“No,” he agreed. “I am not. But when I _do_ —”

“How old are you?”

“Me? Sixty-three. How old are _you_?”

“Thirty-eight. Are you really— You don’t look sixty-three! But that… How old is Drumknott?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Thirty— _Twenty-eight_ years younger than you?”

“Moist, you are missing the point,” Vetinari said.

“What point?”

“When I die,” Vetinari said, and he put his hands on Moist’s shoulders, gripping them tightly. “You are going to be Patrician.”

“I am _not_ ,” Moist replied immediately.

“You are,” Vetinari said, with a wise nod of his head, and he leaned back in his seat, folding his hands loosely in his lap. “Of course, that is some years off.” Moist stared at him. He felt like the pit had dropped out of his stomach, but Vetinari gestured vaguely with one hand. “You needn’t worry. You will be more than prepared, and you easily have the skills. The city will need to… To continue to thrive. She’s like a rose garden: flowers bloom, here and there, and you must water and feed the plants, prune those that need pruning, weed away unsightly things… Sometimes, you must repot… Are you a horticulturalist, Moist?” Vetinari asked, slightly blearily.

“No, Havelock,” Moist said, wondering if perhaps he was dreaming.

“Ah. Then I shall abandon the metaphor.”

“Thank you. Are you— I can’t be Patrician.”

“Not at this moment,” Vetinari agreed. “ _I’m_ Patrician.”

“No, no, I meant…” Moist sighed, glaring at him. “I mean, I won’t _be able_ to be Patrician.”

“You will have to be. Who will be Patrician if you won’t be Patrician? Hm? Some… some other person?”

“Drumknott?” Moist suggested, because it was the only name that came to mind.

“Oh, no, no,” Vetinari said. “No, he wouldn’t like all the attention. And he doesn’t think it’s his place. _Class_ , it’s a… It’s a difficult thing for one to shuck off. Shuck off. Is that what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“Oh, good,” Vetinari murmured. The door opened, and Drumknott entered with a tray, beginning to pour out two mugs of tea. “You know, dear boy, you will be very _good_. I wouldn’t want you in the position if I didn’t think you were the best for the job, hm?”

Moist stared at him, his mouth dry, his chest a mess of uncomfortable, strange emotions. He didn’t want Vetinari to die, he realized. It was… _wrong._ Vetinari was always there, had always been there, _should_ always be there, not…

Not him.

“I’m not your dear boy,” Moist said. “Drumknott is.”

“Ah, no,” Vetinari disagreed, with a shake of his head, and Moist watched Drumknott jump as Vetinari’s hand landed on the side of his thigh, touching him with an absent propriety that made Drumknott’s cheeks flush, and Moist thought he could see him trying not to smile. “Drumknott is my dear _man_.”

“He’s younger than me,” Moist said.

“And yet,” Vetinari replied, his tone lascivious in a way that made Moist a mix of horrified and _twice as horrified_ , with bells on, “ _curiously_ more—”

“Do _not_ finish that sentence if you wish to live, my lord,” Drumknott said sharply as Vetinari’s gaze flitted down Drumknott’s body, utterly incognizant of his distressed and baffled audience, and Moist had to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing hysterically. It was… _odd_ , he thought, and uncomfortable, to think of Vetinari having sex. It was like, he expected, like thinking of your parents—

No.

No, he was not going down the road of thinking of Vetinari in the same vein as a father. No. Nope. No.

“Are you _threatening_ me, Drumknott?” Vetinari asked, as if Drumknott had just given him a bouquet of flowers and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

“Drink your tea,” Drumknott said tersely, his face the reddest Moist had ever seen it.

Vetinari drank some.

He was looking at Moist appraisingly, squinting slightly as if it would make his eyes focus better. The hand not holding his mug of tea, Moist noted, had moved from the side of Drumknott’s thigh to cup the back of it instead, and Drumknott was visibly doing his best not to respond.

“Can you sing, Moist?” Vetinari asked. He added, with some accusation, “ _Rufus_ can’t.”

Moist watched, fascinated, as Drumknott rolled his eyes, and slapped Vetinari’s wrist so that he’d retract his hand. Vetinari smiled, and he watched after Drumknott as he walked away. Moist took in the expression on his face: soft, warm. The sort of way he looked at Adora Belle, until she told him off for being soppy, and then told him to do it again.

He hadn’t _thought_ about it, before, but he’d thought, at least, that it was just—

 _Sexual_.

That look isn’t sexual. Not _just_ sexual.

“I have work to do, Havelock,” Moist said.

“Yes,” Vetinari agreed. “But first, you must sing.”

Moist considered it as Vetinari dragged the piano stool back to the piano.

He sang.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

It wasn’t acknowledged, afterward. Not by Vimes, who didn’t like to acknowledge anything where Vetinari was concerned; not by Vetinari or Drumknott themselves, who maintained a natural ability to easily pretend recent events had never happened; not by Moist, who didn’t say a word, didn’t even make an _implication_.

The Dead Letter Office was, for a night, empty, before new mystery letters began filtering in.

It was on a sunny evening, a week later, when he came up to the Oblong Office. He had _not_ been summoned, but had made his own appointment, to go over some of the figures for the Hygienic Railway.

“Ah,” Vetinari said pleasantly. _“Moist_.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “Are we still doing that?”

Vetinari glanced at him, arching an eyebrow. “Yes, I think so,” he said, slowly, as if it was obvious.

Moist felt himself smile.

 

 

[1] A word which might, from anyone else, imply the ability to refuse, and from Vetinari, was a synonym for “ordered”.

[2] Both in his eyes and, like as not, concealed in his sleeve.

[3] This wasn’t true. Vetinari’s _actual_ bedroom, where he and Drumknott slept, followed a secret passageway from his _second_ dummy bedroom.

[4] Vimes noted that it was big enough for two players, and wisely said nothing.

[5] Doctor of Medicine, Doctor of Music, Doctor of God Studies, Master Assassin, Master of Political Expediency, Master of Alchemical Science, Bachelor in the Science of Inhumation.

[6] Or, given what Moist knew about their _intimate_ relations, perhaps the other way around.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open. Please hit me up on Dreamwidth or Discord if you'd like to talk more about this ship, honestly - I'm really excited about it and would love to find some other shippers. 
> 
> I run a [Discworld Comm](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/), and there's also [a Discord right here.](https://discord.gg/b8Z3ThH)


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